Void
by Ghost Wulf
Summary: "I wonder if Al thinks about the same things I do—about holes in the memory quilt where a tall, intangible figure belongs, but never appears. All the little pieces add up to a gaping void impossible to ignore." Ed's POV. Please just try it out.


**-Void-**

Sleep is elusive on stormy nights. There's something about the constant drums of thunder and the heavy scent of rain that burrows into my mind and chases away rest, replacing it instead with a ragged quilt of threadbare memories. I can't remember if it was truly stormy the morning he walked out, but it was early enough to still be dark, and even though I stood indoors, I felt rain on my cheeks.

Daylight makes it easy for me to convince myself I don't care—after all, in daylight I have riddles to solve and endless leads to follow. But under a canopy of storm clouds and silence, no matter how I fight it, I find myself treading just a bit down forbidden paths of "what if," "what might have been," and "why?"

Al knows I'm awake, but any thoughts he might have remain unspoken. I wonder if he thinks about the same things I do—about holes in the memory quilt where a tall, intangible figure belongs, but never appears. Places: birthdays, family moments, the dinner table, stormy nights. Words: an encouragement, praise, a scolding. People: a comforter, a guide, a teacher, a father. All the little pieces add up to a gaping void impossible to ignore.

I never told Mom—I haven't even told Al—but my earliest memory is of him. Nothing special, just his face. I don't remember where I was, or how old I was, or if he was holding me, all I know is he wasn't smiling. I never did see him smile; sometimes I wonder if he even can. Or could. Is he still alive? In daylight, I wouldn't care, but . . .

Either way, does it make a difference? I suppose not. He willingly sliced himself out of my life years ago.

I shift positions, trying to ease the pain in my chest that appeared with the storm. Despite the warmth of the room, my nerves feel numb where they connect to my automail limbs. That morning from years ago plays out on the stage of my mind over and over again, a loop of time lost in the space between a few minutes and a few eternities.

Al's small hand had shaken me awake, accompanied by an urgent plea to use the bathroom. I was his older brother; I couldn't let him get eaten by anything lurking in the dark. So I had forced my groggy mind awake and lead him to the hallway.

Mom's voice caught my attention, though I don't remember now what she said. I turned to face her in response, blinking and rubbing my eyes in the harsh glare from the hallway light. My heart knew something was wrong before my eyes saw the glistening tears frozen in her eyes.

She knelt before me, but didn't fully block my view. I saw the figure looming in the doorway. Our eyes met, the large suitcase in his hand explaining what he didn't bother to. I was old enough to understand that he was leaving, and I wasn't naïve enough to think he'd come back. Mom said something I didn't hear; I just kept my attention on him. The silence stretched between us as a tangible tie, our eye contact the only bond we ever really shared, a bond I could only ever define as mystery and uncertainty and longing.

In that moment, I saw two people before me. One was my dad and I wanted to run to him, latch onto his leg, weigh him down, keep him there. But at the same time, I stood before a stranger, one I didn't know how to approach or even how to feel about.

I stood still. He turned. Opened the door. Left. The tie between us stretched to breaking and then shattered, falling in crystal shards only I could see. Mom hugged me tight and I realized suddenly that my eyes hurt. I squeezed them shut and felt the tears slide down my cheeks. I tried to understand, but my brain grasped at nothing. So I clung to my mother and cried until I fell asleep in her arms, my dreams haunted by the shattered bond and the quiet closing of a door.

"Ed, what are you thinking about?" Al's voice penetrates my mind through the past. I turn my head, away from the window toward the darkness of the room. I can't see him, but I feel his gaze. At my back, the wind lets out a moan of painful longing for an end to the storm.

I can't bring myself to say his name, and even on a stormy night it's hard to think of him as our father. So I turn my head back to the window, watch the harsh raindrops splatter against the glass, highlighted by silver moonlight. Listen to their sharp echoes in my ears.

"The past," I say.

Al knows me too well. Not a moment later, against a backdrop of thunder, he replies quietly, "I miss them too."

I've trained myself well—even stormy nights can't fight that. Before he even finishes the last word, I growl, "I miss _Mom_."

Al doesn't offer a response, but, again, he knows me. Sometimes better than I know myself. Thunder rumbles in the distance again and my eyes slip closed. Instead of darkness, I see the back of a tall figure, eternally walking away.


End file.
